


The Sweetest Release Might Take Awhile

by Must_Be_Thursday



Series: The Kindest Thing [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier & Geralt talk about their feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Major Character Injury, Not Quite Human Jaskier, Platonic Soulmates, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Temporary Character Death, content warnings for chapter 2 in the notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:01:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28022844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Must_Be_Thursday/pseuds/Must_Be_Thursday
Summary: Jaskier didn't know that he inherited the family gift (or curse as they tended to call it) so he never thought to tell Geralt.  When he is mortally wounded during a run-in with a troupe of bandits, Geralt and Ciri think it’s the end for their favorite bard.  But they are about to learn something few outsiders know about the Pankratz family.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Kindest Thing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2080722
Comments: 18
Kudos: 231





	1. Chapter 1

“Run, Ciri,” Geralt hissed under his breath. He pulled his steel sword from its sheath attached to Roach’s saddle and gave the mare a slap.

Ciri leaned low over Roach’s neck and squeezed her legs to ask for a little more speed until they made it through a bend in the road. She knew what to do if they were ever attacked. Run until she could find cover, hide, wait for the signal from Geralt. If the signal never came, she would at least have a decent head start on whoever was after her at the given moment.

When the sounds of the fight faded, she turned Roach off the road into the thick forest. They picked their way through the undergrowth, walking parallel to the path for a few minutes before coming out and crossing the road to hide on the opposite side. It wouldn’t fool any decent tracker for long, but it would at least buy Ciri a few minutes if she needed to run.

She tried not to panic. Geralt was a Witcher, used to fighting much more fearsome beasts than men. Jaskier wouldn’t have survived alone as long as he did without self-defense skills, and she’d seen the wicked looking dagger he kept hidden in his coat. They were up against what looked like a small group of poorly armed but overconfident thieves. They would be fine. They were always fine.

The saddle creaked when Roach sidestepped, ears twitching as she picked up on Ciri’s anxiety. Ciri relaxed her hold on the reins and stroked Roach’s neck, trying to sooth the mare as well as herself. 

She focused on her surroundings to try and center herself. She listened to the leaves of the trees brushing each other as their branches swayed. Watched a squirrel run up a tree to its nest. Smelled the damp earth turned up by Roach’s hooves. She gradually felt her body relax as she continued to find things to focus on.

After several minutes a three note whistle reached Ciri and she sighed with relief. Roach was already heading back to the road since it was the same signal Geralt used for his mare. Ciri tried not to take offence, Geralt liked to keep things simple. It was practical.

Ciri’s exasperated amusement was short lived. She rounded the bend in the path to find Geralt on his knees, as she drew closer Ciri realized he held Jaskier in his arms. Geralt didn’t even look up as Roach slid to a stop beside them.

“Jaskier?” Ciri jumped off Roach and fell to the ground across from Geralt. She grabbed Jaskier’s hand, “Jask?”

She took in the blood painting his lips and soaking his clothes, his features slack and chest still, “No…” she whispered.

Geralt’s hand was on her shoulder but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from Jaskier’s face. She had seen countless deaths over the last several months, many of them friends or people trying to help her. But Jaskier was one of the last people she had left from her old life. He was the friendly bard who always came to play at the autumn feast, and then he joined her and Geralt and they quickly settled into an easy friendship. Jaskier was kind and gentle. He always knew when she needed time alone and when she needed someone to cheer her up. He remembered all of her favorite songs and played them softly as she fell asleep each night, finally keeping the nightmares away.

She finally realized that Geralt was shaking her and she looked up at him through her tears, “Breathe, Ciri.”

A gasping sob made its way past Ciri’s lips and she threw her arms around Geralt’s neck. She felt him wrap her in a one-armed hug, holding her close while still supporting Jaskier in his lap. 

Ciri leaned her head against Geralt’s chest and turned to look at Jaskier again. His fringe had fallen away from his brow when his head lolled back. She reached down to gently pull it back across his forehead as he liked to wear it. Despite the gore, he looked peaceful cradled in their arms. There was no trace of pain or fear twisting his features.

She eventually managed to quiet her sobs, but the tears hadn’t yet stopped when Geralt pulled back.

“We have to move,” he explained. Ciri glanced between him and Jaskier, her breath starting to hitch again, “We’ll take him with us, find him a nice place to rest.”

The slightest crack in Geralt’s voice was the only thing that gave away his grief. Ciri remembered that he had been Jaskier’s friend almost twice as long as she’d been alive. She felt an odd sort of guilt for him having to comfort her. 

“I’m going to hide the bodies first,” he said, sliding his arms under Jaskier to lift him off his lap. 

Ciri nodded and looked around, realizing that she probably should have been more concerned that she hadn’t noticed the five corpses scattered across the road. Geralt made quick work of dragging them into the trees before coming back for Jaskier. He picked up the bard and as carefully as possible draped him over Roach’s saddle.

They continued in the direction Ciri had run earlier. She walked a step ahead of Geralt and Roach, she couldn’t bear to watch Jaskier’s lifeless limbs sway with Roach’s gait.

When they came across the tracks Ciri had made crossing the road Geralt glanced over to her. She looked up and saw the barest hint of a smile on his face. 

He leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “You’re so clever and brave, Ciri,” he whispered into her hair.

Ciri sniffled and tried to hold back the tears she felt pricking the back of her eyes again. Geralt kept his hand on her shoulder as they walked. 

After an hour of walking, the forest opened up on the right side of the road to reveal an empty field. It was bordered on two sides by trees and on the far side by a small stream. Flowers and wild grains swayed in the gentle breeze. Ciri stopped and stared at the beautiful colors of the flowers in full bloom. 

She looked up at Geralt, and hoped he would understand the question she couldn’t bring herself to ask. He nodded, “Let’s get Roach settled then circle back.”

Near the creek they found a thick grove of pines that provided good cover, a few dozen yards away from the edge of the field. Geralt gently laid Jaskier on the bed of pine needles. Ciri sat beside him while Geralt relieved Roach of her tack. He pulled a short, folding spade from a saddle bag and unrolled Jaskier’s bedroll, shaking out the quilt and carefully covering Jaskier. 

“Roach will look after him,” he said, holding out a hand to help Ciri to her feet.

Ciri nodded, still looking at the shrouded form before her. She knew she should be grateful they even got to bury Jaskier. So many people had been left where they’d fallen during the war, proper funerals a rare luxury during such a time. 

The worst part though was how senseless his death was. The bandits who attacked them probably didn’t even know who she was, but that did nothing to relieve the guilt she held about his death. It felt like everyone she allowed to herself to befriend ended up dead. She reluctantly tore her eyes from Jaskier and followed Geralt back to the field.

*********

_“Run, Ciri.”_

_He didn’t have time to check on how Jaskier was faring, too busy fighting three of the bandits at once. Jaskier was capable of defending himself in fairly matched fights, but he was facing two of their attackers with just the single dagger he carried. Geralt heard the thump of a body hitting the ground behind him as he dispatched the last of his share and turned to find his bard with his blade locked with one of the bandits, the other already dead beside him. He seemed to be doing okay, clearly trying to wear down his opponent while he waited for an opening._

_Geralt was still a few steps away when he saw Jaskier’s eyes widen in fear, but he couldn’t tell what went wrong until it was too late. The bandit pulled a hunting knife from the back of his belt with his off hand and swung it up under Jaskier’s arm to bury it hilt-deep in his chest._

_The man pulled the blade free and shoved the bard to the ground to make a foolish move on Geralt. Their fight was short and brutal, ending with the bandit’s head rolling across the path._

_Geralt fell to the ground beside Jaskier._

_“Should have…Should have known he had…a second blade,” Jaskier mumbled. His hands trembled where he was holding them lightly against the chest wound._

_“Quiet,” Geralt grunted. He pulled Jaskier’s hands away and replaced them with his own, pressing much harder._

_Jaskier cried out at the pressure, hands clawing at the ground as he tried to escape the pain, “Stop…p-please stop, Geralt.”_

_“I have to stop the bleeding, Jask.”_

_“Geralt...”_

_Geralt dragged his gaze from his blood soaked hands to Jaskier’s face. He found sad acceptance written across the usually joyful features._

_“No, just hold on,” Geralt quickly scanned the surrounding woods to be sure there wasn’t anyone lying in wait. He faced the direction Ciri had run and let out their whistle that meant the coast was clear. He turned back to Jaskier._

_“Ciri will be back soon. We’ll get you to a healer.”_

_“I don’t think…a healer could h-help,” Jaskier paused to drag in a ragged breath, “And you know…there isn’t time.”_

_Geralt had been doing his best to ignore that fact, but he couldn’t avoid it any longer. He could see the blood staining Jaskier’s teeth, hear it filling his chest, feel it soaking through the knees of his own trousers. Geralt’s heart sank. This wasn’t a monster he could fight or a fate he could run from. All he could he could do was watch. He let up the harsh pressure on Jaskier’s chest, knowing it was only causing more pain than it was worth._

_The bard managed a tight smile through the agony that was surely consuming him, “I-It’s okay. Ciri’s safe. That’s…all that matters.”_

_“Jask,” Geralt whispered. Jaskier deserved so much better. A peaceful death after a long retirement near the sea, not bleeding out under Geralt’s hands in the middle of nowhere. Gods, Geralt had never felt so useless. There was too much internal damage, too much blood already lost. What’s more, all of their supplies were with Roach, he didn’t even have a painkiller to ease his passing._

_Geralt sat back on his heels to pull Jaskier into his lap. He winced when a broken whimper left Jaskier at the movement, but he wasn’t going to let him die in the dirt like his murderers. Jaskier slumped in his arms once he was settled, rolling his head to look up at Geralt._

_Time was growing short, Geralt could hear Jaskier’s racing heart stumble and slow in his chest, his breaths little more than shallow gasps. He cupped Jaskier’s neck, rubbing gentle circles in the soft hair behind his ear. Geralt didn’t think there was much comfort in such a small gesture, but Jaskier leaned into his touch and relaxed a little deeper into his arms._

_It was too quiet. The forest creatures scared off during the fight, Jaskier unable to speak more than a few words at a time, Geralt not used to being responsible for filling the silence. It reminded him of those dark days after the disastrous dragon hunt. Weeks of brooding in silence. He’d fumbled his way through an apology after Jaskier found him and Ciri, and he was sure Jaskier knew he valued their friendship, but he wasn’t going to let him go without saying as much._

_Geralt leaned down to press their foreheads together, “Jaskier,” he whispered, “Thank you, for following me that day in Posada. And all these years since. You’re a far better friend than I deserve.”_

_A quiet huff of laughter passed Jaskier’s lips, “I’m exactly…what you deserve.”_

_Geralt smiled despite himself and pulled back far enough to meet Jaskier’s tired eyes. Before they closed a final time, Geralt caught a flash of the playful glint they usually held._

_Jaskier sighed his last breath. His heart fought through a few more fluttering beats before it too fell silent._

_And Geralt’s world fell apart. He knelt in the road as his chest started to ache, and he distantly realized he’d stopped breathing at the same time as Jaskier. It felt like a betrayal to draw breath when his best friend was growing cold in his arms._

_No longer afraid of causing Jaskier pain, Geralt shifted him closer and pressed a kiss to his hair. He took a deep breath and found that there was no fear tainting Jaskier’s familiar scent. The tightness in Geralt’s chest lessened somewhat, even as his heart shattered._

_His bard, fearless to the end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise they're all gonna be okay. Jaskier's non-human ancestry will be explained in chapter 2.
> 
> (I name most of my fics by throwing a dart at my music library. sorry. This one is from Style by Foster the People)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: discussions of infertility, miscarriage, infant death, suicide, and thoughts of suicide/disregard for one's life

Jaskier woke with a dry mouth and an aching chest. He groaned and pulled the quilt down from where it was covering his face. The late afternoon sun filtered through the pine trees and he panicked for a moment, thinking he had somehow managed to sleep through nearly a whole day. Jaskier sat up swiftly, chest protesting at the movement. He absentmindedly reached up to rub the ache away and paused when he felt the rough texture of his shirt. He looked down slowly.

_Oh._

Dried blood covered his front, soaking the cream chemise a dark burgundy. He tasted blood in his mouth and could feel the itch of it on his skin. He reached up to scratch his scalp and found more of the same, pine needles tangled in among the strands matted by blood. 

_From Geralt’s hands_ , he thought. He remembered those last few minutes with greater clarity than he felt was necessary. Jaskier closed his eyes. He was sure he would never forget the devastated look on Geralt’s face as he bled out in his lap.

He heard a familiar nicker and looked up to find Roach tied nearby. Her tack and their supplies stacked beside her. Jaskier hoisted himself to his feet and stumbled over to the mare, grateful that she wasn’t frightened by the smell of blood.

“Hi, Roachie girl,” Jaskier whispered, scratching at her favorite spot low on her neck. She stretched out and then bumped his head gently, nuzzling at his hair.

Jaskier leaned against her neck and sighed. He ran his fingers through her mane and glanced at the ring that bore the Pancratz family crest.

He gave Roach a final pat and walked over to their supplies. Everything was piled haphazardly, except for his lute which had been carefully placed against a tree. Such a tiny gesture, yet so full of love, so very _Geralt_. Caring for the things he knew Jaskier cared about. 

It took all of Jaskier’s will power not to start searching for him and Ciri right then. But running through the woods in bloody clothes probably wouldn’t help him convince Geralt that he wasn’t a spirit or wraith. He picked up his satchel and headed for the stream he could hear bubbling not too far away.

Jaskier knelt at the edge of the stream and reached down to cup some water in his hand. He paused when he caught a glimpse of his reflection. The change wasn’t profound, but he definitely looked younger. He aged slowly as it was. At forty he still passed as a man ten years his junior, but the reflection staring back at him looked closer to how he had when he’d met Geralt. Skin just the slightest bit brighter and smoother. Hair slightly darker. He’d been ignoring the few gray hairs that had sprouted recently, though they were no longer in sight. 

Pushing aside vain curiosity, Jaskier rinsed his mouth and then shed his clothes. He’d given up his bright colors since they were on the run, opting for an earthy green doublet in a simple cut and tawny trousers. His shirt was a lost cause, soaked nearly completely, a large tear through the front. Jaskier grimaced and dropped it to the ground. His trousers were nearly unscathed, but his doublet was other matter. It was intact, though almost as bloody as the chemise. But he didn’t have another, traveling light as they were. He dunked it in the stream and weighed it down with some rocks to soak while he washed the gore from his body. 

The foamy lather of his soap was tinged pink by the time he washed it away and watched it swirl down the stream. Rinsing and detangling his matted hair took longer than Jaskier expected and by the time he was clean he was shivering in the cool water. He stepped on the bank and dried off quickly, slipping on his spare trousers. Before pulling on his extra shirt, Jaskier paused and looked down at his chest. 

Just right of his breastbone was a thin scar, faded and hidden among his chest hair. He probably wouldn’t have even noticed it if he weren’t looking. It was longer than he’d expected, intersecting one of his ribs, which probably explained the lingering chest pain. No one had warned him about that. Jaskier shuddered and pulled his shirt on. 

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Jaskier dug through his bag for the harsh laundry soap he carried and pulled his sodden doublet from the creek bed. Three washes later his hands were nearly raw, but there was no trace of blood on his jacket. He laid it out on the warm rocks beside him and sat to watch the water bubble past. 

He was working up the courage to go look for Geralt and Ciri when he felt the cool metal of a sword pressed against the side of his neck.

“Where’s the body?” Geralt hissed from behind him. 

Jaskier slowly raised his hands, “I’m going to stand up, Geralt.”

Geralt growled at the sound of his name spoken in Jaskier’s familiar lilt but didn’t strike him down as the bard rose to his feet and turned to face the Witcher.

“I won’t ask again. Where’s his body?” Gods, Geralt looked awful. Face tight with grief, hair mussed, and clothes smeared with mud.

Jaskier winced when he realized Geralt must have been digging his grave.

“It’s me,” Jaskier said, trying to pour sincerity into his words.

“You may have stolen his face and his memories, but you’ll never be him. Tell me where the body is. Now.”

Jaskier glanced around, trying to think of what could convince Geralt he wasn’t a shifter of some kind. His eyes landed on Ciri, standing back at the tree line. Geralt growled again and stepped into Jaskier’s line of sight. He pushed the tip of his sword under the bard’s chin. Jaskier nearly sighed with relief when he realized which sword it was.

“If I was a doppler, or any other kind of shifter, the silver would be burning me. I’d be in pain and there would be a burn mark on my neck. Right?”

Geralt's gaze flicked to the side of Jaskier’s neck and then back to his face. “Some shifters have been known to build an immunity,” Geralt said. He studied Jaskier’s face carefully. 

“And I can feel your chaos, it’s weak but it’s there. My Jaskier never had magic,” Geralt’s voice dropped to a whisper, “You didn’t get him quite right, either. You’re off by a few years.”

 _My Jaskier_. Jaskier felt his heart break at that. He also hadn’t noticed the magic tingling beneath his skin until then. Still stitching him back together.

“Yes. I – I can explain that if you’ll let me. It’s a rather –.” A breeze brushed the back of Jaskier’s neck, and he broke off when Geralt’s expression softened into one of hesitant hope. 

The sword fell to point harmlessly at the ground and Geralt took half a step toward Jaskier, his free hand stretched out as though he wanted to touch his shoulder.

“Shifters never get the scent right,” Geralt said under his breath, “Jask?”

Jaskier nodded, “It’s me,” he said with a cautious smile.

Before Jaskier could say anything else, Geralt dropped his sword and wrapped Jaskier in an almost painful hug. One hand tangled in his hair, the other arm locked around his shoulders, pulling him as close as physically possible. 

“Fuck, Jask,” Geralt whispered with a shaky sigh.

Jaskier returned the embrace and rested his head on Geralt’s shoulder, suddenly exhausted.

“Geralt?” Ciri called from the trees.

Geralt gave Jaskier a final squeeze and stepped back. “It’s okay, Ciri,” he said, turning to look at the princess, “It’s him.”

Ciri hesitated for a few moments before she ran and jumped into Jaskier’s open arms, nearly sending them both into the stream.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Jaskier said quietly, running a hand over Ciri’s hair. He froze when he noticed the tremors shaking her shoulders, the near-silent sobs muffled by his chest. “Oh, I’m alright, little cub. Better than before actually.”

Ciri shook her head, “I’m happy,” she whispered, “You came back. No one ever comes back.”

Jaskier felt tears pricking his own eyes and he glanced at Geralt. 

The Witcher hovered nearby but let them have a minute to themselves until Ciri let go and wiped her eyes. He pulled her close to his side and looked back to Jaskier, “Would you mind explaining what the hell is going on?”

*********

Jaskier sat near the fire on his bed roll, wrapped in his quilt and cold weather cloak. He found himself drained after the shock of waking up wore off. Apparently knitting flesh and bone back together and restarting vital organs was an exhausting business. Geralt had noticed and suggested they make camp and eat something before having Jaskier tell his story.

He stared into the fire for a while, gathering his thoughts and trying to decide where to start. Storytelling usually came easily to him, it was his profession after all, but talking about his family was something he usually avoided. He felt Geralt and Ciri watching him patiently.

He sighed and began, “We’re not sure exactly when it started. A few generations back there was a purge of magical beings in the kingdoms surrounding Lettenhove, and all of the family’s written records were destroyed out of fear. It’s a history passed down orally now.

“What we know is that an early Count and Countess couldn’t have children. They tried for years. Every time they managed to get pregnant the Countess would miscarry, or the infant would be stillborn, if they made it that far. They needed an heir, there wasn’t any extended family for them to pass their titles to. They must have visited every mage and healer on the Continent in their search for a cure. The Countess didn’t have much longer before she wouldn’t be able to bear children. 

“Eventually they found a mage in the Blue Mountains who offered to try and help them.”

Jaskier paused and looked to Geralt, “What do you know of the Phoenix legend?”

Geralt looked at him incredulously, “We were always told they were a myth. Long extinct if they ever existed at all. Sentient and too peaceful to be monsters. Are you…?”

Jaskier gave him a wane smile and nodded, “Of a sort. A true, natural born Phoenix really would be a thing of myths and legends. But one artificial Phoenix lived long ago. He was the result of selective crossbreeding of thunderbirds and dragons. Lots of very old magic, mutations, and experiments. It was all the work of a crazed sorcerer with a god complex. Nearly all of the young ones he bred died during…whatever it was he was did to them to try and make them immortal. 

“The sorcerer eventually succeeded but the backlash of chaos killed him and the Phoenix he created. The mage my ancestors met felt the chaos from miles away. When she was investigating she found the Phoenix’s body. She was preparing a pyre for him when he woke up. He was weak from the chaos, his body not made to hold so much magic, but the mage helped him regain his health and realized he had an intelligence similar to a dragon. Once he was strong enough, she created a glamour for him so he could walk among humans.

“They lived together for a millennium. Their combined chaos kept them both young and the few times he died in freak accidents he always came back. But even they had their limits; they were both nearing the end of their lives when the Count and Countess found them.

“The mage had wanted children when she was younger, the Phoenix too. But she didn’t have a womb and adopting was too heartbreaking for them. They couldn’t bear to raise a child only to outlive them several times over. They sympathized with my ancestors and thought that a baby fathered by the Phoenix would be able to stay alive long enough to reach childhood.

“The Count and the Countess agreed to try, they were desperate by that point and accepted that the Count wouldn’t be the biological father. So they stayed with the mage and the Phoenix. He took the Countess to bed until she was pregnant. And when the child was born, he was healthy.

“It was several years later that they realized what they’d done. The boy grew into a young man and was killed in a boar hunt. During the wake that night he sat up from the table he was laid out on, looking like a young teenager rather than a twenty-something. Scared the shit out of those watching over him. 

“The mage and the Phoenix had passed on by then, so they had no one to go to for help. Over the years we’ve learned a few things on our own though. Enough to avoid detection at least.

“Not everyone who is descended from the first half-phoenix Pancratz can die and return. It seems to happen randomly. Often skipping generations at a time. It’s come to be known as a curse in the family. Several carriers of the curse have gone mad, watching their loved ones age and die, being forced to live on with no escape. Some even tried to end their own lives repeatedly, thinking there must be some kind of limit, only to be forced back again and again. 

“These days, when someone learns they have the curse, they typically fake their death and wander the continent, sometimes coming home to visit every few decades. It’s easier that way. Fewer attachments to people and places seem to make a long life a little more bearable,” Jaskier shoots Geralt a sympathetic look.

“For the most part we just live a little longer than average and don’t age as quickly as most. The chaos has been diluted so much that even those with the full curse only live a few lifetimes rather than several centuries. Eventually we stop coming back, but it’s unpredictable. I don’t know how long I’ll live, or how many times I’ll die before it’s permanent. But from what I’ve been told, the cursed always seem to know when the end is near. Like the Phoenix did.”

Jaskier sighed, “I didn’t know I had the curse until today. No one can be certain they have it until they die for the first time, except for those who make it well into middle age. The cursed seem to stop aging near their fiftieth year, though it sometimes takes them a while to notice. And as you’ve seen, dying sets us back a few years physically,” he smiled, a tight version of his usual cheeky grin, “I don’t mind that bit so much,” he said quietly.

Jaskier fell silent, unsure what else to say after such a revelation. After a few minutes of not-quite-awkward silence, Geralt stood and started making a small pot of tea, one of the few luxury items they carried that was desperately needed at the moment.

Ciri scooted over until she was sitting beside Jaskier and dropped a small wreath in his lap. It shook Jaskier out of the daze he’d fallen into and he looked down at the circle of sage and lavender she had carefully braided together. Blue forget-me-nots and tiny yellow flowers were tucked in among the leaves.

“I made it for you,” she explained quietly, “Well…for your grave that is.”

Jaskier ran his fingers over the delicate flowers, admiring the care she put into each twist of the stems. As macabre as the meaning behind it was, he couldn’t help but smile even as he felt a tear run down as his cheek, “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“Oh, I – I’m sorry, Jaskier,” Ciri said quickly.

“It’s okay,” Jaskier said, looking back to the wreath in his hands, “I just didn’t expect it.”

Before Jaskier could collect himself, he had an armful of princess as Ciri wrapped herself around his torso, “I’m sorry that this happened to you. I know having chaos you can’t control is hard,” she pulled back and met his eyes, “But I’m glad you’re still here, and that you will be for a long time. I can’t imagine how awful it was, but I – I could never hate something that keeps you alive. Even if you think it’s a curse.”

Jaskier felt a few more tears slip out, throat too tight to say anything. The wreath was an unexpected kindness, but Ciri’s instant unconditional acceptance of him even more so. It was something he never even realized he’d been craving his entire life.

“Well said, Ciri,” Geralt said gently, holding out two cups of tea. He poured another for himself and sat down on Jaskier’s other side.

Jaskier allowed himself to enjoy the calming sweetness of the chamomile. The warmth of the fire and Geralt and Ciri at his sides helped him begin to unwind. 

He twirled the wreath around his wrist, “As beautiful as this is Ciri, I won’t be needing it for a while. What should we do with it?” He sat it on Ciri’s head as a crown.

Ciri smiled but reached up to pull it off, “In Cintra we would burn herbs during birthday celebrations.” Her eyes flicked between the wreath and the flames of the fire.

“I remember,” Jaskier said, “Would you like to do the honors?”

“It’s your birthday,” Ciri handed the wreath back. “Well, your new birthday anyway.”

Jaskier pulled one of the yellow flowers from the wreath, tucking it away to press in his notebook later and dropped the rest in the flames. The green leaves smoldered and gave off a thick, sweet-smelling smoke that filled the clearing.

It wasn’t long before Ciri listed and slumped against his side. 

Jaskier felt Geralt’s quiet chuckle at his other side. The Witcher reached over to pull the empty cup from her hands and then stood to bring their bed rolls over beside Jaskier’s. He jostled Ciri gently until she was half-awake and nudged her toward a bedroll, pulling her quilt up to her shoulders. 

Geralt warmed their tea with what was left in the pot and then sat back down beside Jaskier. Once settled, he produced a flask and poured a generous amount of Cintran whiskey in each of their cups.

“Oho. You’ve been holding out on me, my dear Witcher.”

“I’ve been saving it for a rough day,” Geralt huffed, tucking the flask away, “I don’t want to tempt fate, but I imagine this qualifies.”

Jaskier looked into his cup for several long moments, “I’m sorry I never told you,” he whispered.

“It’s okay, Jask.”

“It’s not. You’re my best friend, and this…I should have told you,” Jaskier downed the rest of his cup in one swallow.

Geralt didn’t say anything for a while. He finished off his own drink and poured another round. “It would have been cruel.”

“What would have been cruel?” Jaskier asked.

“If I knew about your family but wasn’t sure if you carried the gift. And then had to hold your body after you were killed, waiting for you to wake, knowing the odds were far greater that you never would? That would have been far worse than what I went through today.”

Jaskier wasn’t sure how to respond. He leaned into Geralt’s side and knew the touch was welcomed when he felt the slightest bit of pressure returned. 

“You were wrong you know,” he finally said, “You’re the one who is a far better friend than I deserve.”

Geralt nudged him gently with his elbow, “I’m exactly what you deserve.”

Jaskier smirked, “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

“Me neither,” Geralt said with the hint of a smile.

“Can I ask something of you?” Jaskier asked quietly, “Something a little selfish and maybe not entirely reasonable?”

Geralt hummed.

Jaskier recognized that particular hum as an affirmative and dove in before he lost his courage, “I – I always thought you would outlive me. You probably still will, but I can’t…I can’t do this without you. I have a long life ahead of me, and I can never settle down and have a family. It was never something I really wanted anyway, but it’s not even an option for me now. And I know…you have a similar opinion on that. The world is a mess right now, but things will go back to normal eventually and I can’t – I just need you to be careful, especially when you go back to monster hunting full time. It’s too – I can’t –.”

“Jask,” Geralt cut off Jaskier’s rambling.

“I can’t lose you!” Jaskier said, louder than he intended, “I can’t lose you. And I know you can’t make any promises, especially with Nilfgaard on our tails, but please, please be careful.”

“I will,” Geralt whispered, “But I need to ask something of you too.”

Jaskier nodded.

“Don’t be reckless. I know you’re going to want to protect me and Ciri since you know you’re more indestructible than us. But we can’t make your death a regular occurrence.”

“That’s…reasonable. I’d like to avoid it too.”

Geralt smiled gently and tipped his head back, looking at the stars that could be seen through the trees, “I’m much more careful than I was before we met, Jask,” he said, “After Blaviken, I didn’t much care if I lived or died. I got reckless during hunts; took jobs I knew needed more than one Witcher. But that changed after Posada. I started to care again, remembered that there’s more to life than monsters and the cruelty of men. You saved my life, Jaskier.”

He looked over to his bard, “You asked me once if Witchers ever retire. We don’t, but I think I’d like to. In few years Ciri will be grown and she’ll want to go off on her own. We could go to the coast like you offered. Work out what pleases us.”

Jaskier looked away, the open, vulnerable expression on Geralt’s face too painful to look at for too long. “What about Yennefer?” he asked quietly.

Geralt sighed, “I care about her. I always will…but we could never build a relationship on what we have. It's always been more lust than love. I’ve never wanted you in that way but…I do love you. I have for a long time. And if that’s enough for you, then it is for me too.”

Jaskier swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to blink back the tears building in his eyes. "That will always be enough for me," Jaskier rested his head on Geralt’s shoulder and closed his eyes. “I love you too,” he whispered.

Geralt wrapped an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to his hair, his warm breath tickled Jaskier's scalp, “Are you smelling me again, Witcher?” he asked, slightly amused.

Geralt hummed, “You smell of death and destiny. Heroics and...heartbreak.”

“It’s jasmine,” Jaskier deadpanned.

“Ah.”

They both laughed softly.

“If you do want a family, I’m sure you have plenty of bastard children we could track down.”

Jaskier snickered, recognizing the teasing tone of Geralt’s voice, “They might be better off without me. I don’t think I’m cut out for fatherhood.”

Geralt shook his head, “You’re doing fine so far.”

Jaskier smiled and melted against Geralt’s side.

“You’re tired,” Geralt said matter-of-factly.

“Yes,” Jaskier said, bringing a hand up to rub at his chest again.

“Are you in pain?” Geralt asked, pulling back to look Jaskier over.

“A little sore. I don’t know much about how the healing works, but I feel better than I did earlier.”

Geralt stood so Jaskier could lay down, “We can stay here tomorrow. A rest would be good for all of us.”

“I don’t want to hold us back, Geralt.”

“It’s one day,” Geralt said, stretching out on Ciri’s other side, “And this is the safest place we’ve found for a while.”

Ciri rolled over into Jaskier’s chest, “Let’s stay, Jask. I want to sleep in.”

“How long have you been awake?” Jaskier asked with a chuckle.

“Mmm…something about your bastard children. Are they my cousins or my siblings?”

“They don’t exist. Geralt was joking.”

“Doesn’t sound like a Geralt joke,” Ciri said, snuggling closer, “Can we stay?”

Jaskier met Geralt’s eyes over Ciri’s shoulder, “Sleeping in does sound nice.”

“Mmm hmm,” Ciri hummed, drifting to sleep.

“You’re starting to sound like Geralt,” Jaskier said, brushing Ciri’s hair back from her face.

“Is that a bad thing?” Geralt asked with a smile in his voice.

“Ciri is good for conversation. You’re going to ruin her.”

“Go to sleep, bard,” Geralt said, reaching over to give Jaskier a half-hearted slap on the arm.

Jaskier smiled and let himself relax into his bedroll. A princess, a Witcher, and a bard. Jaskier thought that sounded like the beginning of an awful joke. Or maybe the beginning of the family he never thought he could have.


End file.
